


The Bastard's Back

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-The Empty Hearse, Scars, clean sheets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In brief, Sherlock's back and Lestrade, for one, seems glad to see him. A little filler for that night.<br/>(Morphine, there's morphine use and Sherlock's a bit battered, after all)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Oooh you bastard!” he said, and Sherlock stepped into the light.

***

Molly had been easy. “Ah,” she’d said, and jumped. “So, you’re back. Um. For good? Oh, your poor face! Um,” and then a longer pause, while they looked at each other and he said “Missed me?” mockingly and noticed the room was cold. It was colder than he remembered it being and she’d finally gained the ability to look at him straight on, without the small flickering glances of their early acquaintance. “Er, John. You’ve seen John? Where’s John, then?” Tedious and easy, as it should have been. But Molly had expected him to appear. She had indeed, as Mycroft undoubtedly knew, custody of his spare trousers and shaving kit and blue dressing gown, and she should have asked where he was going to sleep tonight. She shook his hand! She ducked her head and let him go with only a promise of a later “chat” in the lab. She made minimal fuss over his appearance. Apprehensive, he’d say, though he wasn’t certain, yet, of what. Could be her dinner or her mother’s weekly call or contact with the toxic Mycroft’s ring. _*ring*_

That left only Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and food and bed and then the rest of the boring world and Mycroft’s nagging case. Her, first. Would she faint? There would be fond smiles and pleased twittering through tears and hand-patting and tea and, as it was Tuesday, leftover marble cake. Fresh linen, on his own bed. His own pajamas from his own bureau and the Stradivarius and skull and couch. The misties from his inner secret pocket to drive the pain away. Solitude, welcome solitude, at last.

So…Lestrade could wait until morning? Until after the inevitable, well deserved, welcome and food and rest. A quick search for likely hashtags revealed no rumors yet abroad; but John had been spectacularly indiscreet. That woman with him was an unknown quantity as well. Dark. Sweeping off with John in _*our*_ their taxi. Pushy and insecure in John’s regard. He’d deal with her later. _*liar*_

“Shut up,” he said aloud, and turned towards Baker Street.

***

There was no cake.

There was screaming and a clout on the ear with a sudsy saucepan; there was prodding with doubting fingers, there was clutching and rumpling of his shirt, there were tears and recriminations and hysterical appeals to a psychic debt of some kind, or debt to a psychic, or a psychic who owed Mrs Hudson repayment, the stoned, mad, bat, and repeated wet references to poor, poor, deluded, shattered John, upstairs and down, until Sherlock banged open the front door and left. He wrote CLEAN SHEETS! first on the wall, but he doubted she’d obey.

Lestrade tonight, after all. Get the next punch in the face over with and then he could doss down in his Oxford Street room above the tailor. Or if his aching arms and back allowed, he could make an assault on the rear face of 221-B, to his bedroom window. He wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction of feeding and housing him. 

GPS located Lestrade, predictably enough, in the Yard’s underground car park. Sherlock stood well out of reach, watching from the shadows. The man looked fit. Hair cut like a convict. His customary topcoat, new shoes, old scarf—but for the hair, and the creases by his eyes, he looked the same. Smoking again, like Sherlock. No subterfuge, this time. When he cupped his hands around the cigarette, Sherlock announced himself with a taunt.

He called him “Graham,” to be a prick, to tease, and braced for the blow as Lestrade raised his arm. And...was _*shocked*_ grabbed in a hug that was awkward and hard and familiar.

“You’re angry,” he said, over Lestrade’s elbow, getting it in first. His arms came up of their own volition. He patted Lestrade’s pockets. He smelled of tobacco and dry-cleaning and the liquid soap of the fifth-floor gents’. He smelled of his office, of adrenaline, files, and stale coffee. And now, from his body and voice, came that unquantifiable but distinct emanation of _*Sherlock*_ case-solved. 

“Yeah. Later.”

“You need a shave. Your hair is ridiculous.”

“Yeah. Later. Later, you fucking lunatic. You dick. Just now,” Lestrade’s hold tightened, “just now, you’re here.” He was inclined to tolerate a bit of sentimental slobber. Was that wetness against his cheek? Would Lestrade...well, apparently not. No greeting kiss, not to his neck, or his throat. Still. His arms met around Lestrade’s back. He opened his hands on the solid bulk of the man holding him and, irrationally, heat poured in through his palms.

Oh, enough. “That hurts,” he said, into Lestrade’s ear. His split lip brushed skin, and Lestrade let go and stepped back, and his hungry body did, yes, feel pain. He was grabbed again by the arms, over healing bruises and sore muscles. He blinked. He didn’t protest. Lestrade bared his teeth and shook him.

“You sodding miracle.” He took in Sherlock’s battered face, still grinning. “John? I hope it was John. I can’t believe...”

“Let go.”

“Not a chance. I can’t believe he let you out of his sight.”

“His stupidity” (he would not choke on the word) “is boundless. Let go; I’m not about to bolt. I’m here for a case.”

“Urgent, is it?” Lestrade’s grip shifted and this time he noticed Sherlock’s wince. _*Game on?*_ Sherlock inhaled. His lip stung. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d performed with a busted mouth. He wanted, suddenly, to perform. He wanted, suddenly, this man in a hard, familiar way. He looked for the usual tells, from Lestrade’s cuffs and shoes, his hands and skin and brow, his mouth, and saw, yes, yes, yes.

“The wife’s off? Again. For good.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade’s jaw tightened.

“Excellent. Time to get on. Dinner and...?” he waited. Waited. Yes, the flush bloomed on the rim of Lestrade’s ear.

“Yeah. Mine or yours?”

Some things, then, were still possible. “Yours.” (Lestrade’s: his lumpy sofa, his kitchen with the warped cupboard doors, his turbo-jet shower nozzle, his bountiful biscuit tins, his horrid Puerto Rican coffee, his firm, warm, bed. It all sounded so appealing and imminent.)

“Does Mrs Hudson know?”

“Debatable,” said Sherlock. “Where’s your car?”

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock finds himself in a bathroom in Bromley.

***

He’d moved. The son of bitch (Gaston, he’d call him), had pulled up stakes and sold his cozily seedy inherited house for a ground floor maisonette in _Bromley_. Quite recently, with renovations underway. Two bedrooms, the spare for the girl to visit (unlikely), but the whole not suited to the wife. She was gone for good. The bath was...

“Meets your standards?” asked Lestrade, from behind him. Sherlock swallowed. Oh, it didn’t, no. But in a cardboard box in the tub was the shower head, waiting to be mounted. The room smelled of fresh paint. His stomach roiled, saliva filled his mouth. “Sherlock?” Lestrade (Gaston!) touched his shoulder.

“Tea,” said Sherlock. He shut the door in Lestrade’s face and rested his forehead on the brush-streaked frame.

The car ride over had been blessedly quiet. “You know, you’ve got to tell me,” said Lestrade once. Then he'd described a cop killer he’d tracked and arrested that month, not incompetently. At every stop, he’d looked over at Sherlock. Between stops, Sherlock had watched the reflected lights and shadows move across Lestrade’s face.

The dizziness passed enough for him to relieve himself and wash his hands. His face in the mirror looked foolish. He dabbed under his nose with a damp tissue and dislodged a blood clot. He was blotting when Lestrade opened the door.

“Tea and whiskey in the sitting room. Pasta bake in the oven.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he rubbed his (disgraceful) head. “Neighbor,” he said. He leaned against the wall. “There’s a garden out back. It’s good.”

Gardener Lestrade! “Convenient for hiding a body, I suppose.”

“You need anything?” The well stocked medicine chest—not so well supplied as Baker Street’s _*John*_ —but before John, there had been Lestrade—notably held codeine tablets and a popular, vile-smelling antibacterial lotion and gauze and tape. He left Its mirrored door ajar, not to see his face longer than necessary. Lestrade had closed in on him _*slow*_ and stood a scant foot away. “Come on.” His voice was low, intimate. Sherlock turned in the tight space to face him; Lestrade put his hands on his waist, thumbs front, pressing, fingers curving round, warm, over shirt, under jacket. “Take it off. Relax.”

His jacket, he meant. His shirt, underneath, and all that, and what all that meant, made Sherlock stiffen. He hadn’t planned, when leaving Mycroft’s, for this. “No,” he said. Considering tactics, when Lestrade withdrew his hands and warmth.

“Right. I see.” Embarrassed, the foolish man.

“You don’t.” Hands, hands were cleaner than his face just now. Lestrade’s belt, simple buckle, simple to undo, and the button underneath; and there, signal given, embarrassment vanquished. “Food first, bed for afters.” He slid fingers inside the undone trouser top, in promise. Folds of cotton shirt flat and pants soft lay between his knuckles and flesh, Lestrade’s belly, so keenly recalled and desired. His lips quirked upward and the inconvenient cut twinged. Bed be damned. He knelt, thighs complaining, and drew down the zip with his thumbs.

“Ten minutes,” said Lestrade. “Oven, you prat. Oh, hell.” Interest rising, firming under his fingers. Broad hands (he approved of Lestrade’s hands, well shaped, uncalloused, competent, sure) cradled his head. He pushed aside shirt tails and pulled out the also clearly recalled and desired cock. Made it wink at him. Licked his lip, licked its tip, and drew its fat head into his mouth.

Sore nose, pained lip, ah, and cut inside his cheek he hadn’t noticed before now. Tea would sting. Perform with a busted mouth he did, with pleasure and force, within the prescribed pasta-warming deadline, and _*Greg*_ Lestrade was careful of him even in extremis. Still managed to knock one of the taps on and splash them both with ice cold water. It was fine, really, fine, and Sherlock wiped his mouth with the shirt tail when it was done. Reassurance achieved. He rejected the memory of the last, too recent, time he’d had to kneel before a man. Closed his eyes and tried to close his nose against the paint fumes. “Sherlock,” said Lestrade, short on breath. “That…are you all right?” The sound of cloth and body sliding down. Knuckles against his cheek. “Mate?” Oh don’t be a damned fool. He opened his eyes on a comical sight. Concerned Lestrade, squatting, knees wide, trousers open, cock out and tired. Concerned eyes. Nice, brown _*kind*_ eyes. “Hello.”

“Paint,” said Sherlock, restoring order to the world. A _ding_ sounded from another room, probably fair warning of tough pasta and burnt cheese. “Disgusting smell, sick-making. It’s been a full few days,” he offered. Reassurance: why precisely did he care? 

“Tell me what you want,” said Lestrade. His hand was still against Sherlock’s (recently shaven, lovely smooth, before it was bruised) face. _*lonely*_ And when precisely had Sherlock begun reading that from _*friends*_ familiars?

“Something to sleep in,” he suggested. He’d been sitting back on his heels. He stood up, now, aided by a hand on the sink, Lestrade rising with him.

Lestrade gestured toward the bedroom. “Help yourself. You always do.” He turned his face, and nose, to the not unpleasant smell coming from the kitchen, but didn’t leave. He moved his hand from Sherlock’s cheek to press against the back of his neck. Gripped him there. It felt good. It always did. Nicked. Copped. Held. “Food first,” he said. Sherlock lifted his arms up and around and he hugged his disarranged, lonely, lovely copper, hard and quick and let him go. Food, yes.

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock unwinds.

***

To food, to bed, finally.

The pasta thing was tolerable. No tomatoes, three cheeses over penne with a crumb topping; suitable for filling in the corners, bland. There was very fine black bread and French butter, dependably. A small lettuce split between them with a bottled dressing, offered without comment without, actually, conversation of any kind but Lestrade's too watchful eye from too far away and "What?" asked Sherlock. The whiskey had been replaced by tea for Sherlock, beer for Lestrade. _*What?*_

He’d put on a black knit shirt (long sleeved but arms too short) and threadbare striped pajama bottoms he recognized and no dressing gown because the old one was missing. They should have gone to Baker Street, after all, and quelled the madness of the landlady with the majesty of the law. Which law was gazing at him too intently in silence and some emotion Sherlock was too jangled to decipher. "What?"

Lestrade shook his head. He finished his beer. He was still in his suit trousers, his work shirt without tie without jacket, without shoes (new socks, brown, mismatched, doing his own laundry). Sherlock was barefoot. The small rug under the sofa was new and horrid. The kitchen cupboard doors closed neatly. Sherlock’s head buzzed. “I know you, you know. I’m not fooled,” said Lestrade.

“You thought I was dead, with all the rest. Don’t put on airs. You were watched. Quite touching, your eulogy. Sergeant Donovan could barely suppress her gag reflex.” It was a foolish speech; the word ‘wisdom’ had apparently lost all meaning in common parlance. 

“Not talking about that. We’ll get to your grand performance later.” He interrupted himself, swiveling between annoyances: “You watched? You bastard!” Shook his head. Furniture leg gouges in the wood flooring; cigarette burn on the carpet; absence of ashtrays, odor, ash. That signified something, surely... “But I mean you, right now. You’re fucked up.”

“Clean and sober.” Deception? Denial? Any sign of... _*cheese*_... Lestrade was the one concealing things, in his own home. Sherlock had nothing left to hide.

“Fucked and fucked up. I know you. I know your body, even if I can’t keep up with your brain. I know you dick side out. No, don’t you dare interrupt.” Sherlock snorted, Lestrade glared; angry, now, yes, and so quickly? And why? No incongruous cosmetics in the bathroom, no irrelevancies in the kitchen, no...ornamentation in the sitting room... alone, yes. The, the bathroom _event_ upset him? He was going on. 

"...what you’re trying to hide. You’re welcome to the bed, but I’m not...”

“Shut up.” Idiots, idiots all around, welcome home. He dropped his fork in his (full) plate and stood up. He walked past the still talking Lestrade, talking drivel, into the bedroom, up to the offered bed. Better in here. Lestrade’s same, comfortable bed. And a change of sheets on the chair, oh, lovely. He threw the pillows on the floor and dragged the coverlet back. Lestrade was in the doorway. Out of words.

“Morphine tablets in my jacket; inner pocket. Prescription.” He stripped off the sheets and stopped. Swaying. He’d held off as long as he could; popped one in the bathroom, before Lestrade walked in, before he, um. Went to his knees, really?

“For a black eye and a nut to the face?” Put it together, in his plodding, dogged way. _Generous_ and _sex_ did not Sherlock describe.

“No, you cretin. You need to spread the sheets; I can’t do it alone. Don’t look offended, you know me, I know you’re stupid.” He sighed; and _*pain*_ pulled up the shirt. Pulled it off. Let him look, get it over with. See him screw up his face in...disgust?

“That, ah.”

“Just bruises. Days old. Not recreational,” he joked. There were needle marks, from the IV, following Mycroft’s ‘rescue.’ Brutal care, get him on his feet. “Nothing broken. Lost a bit of weight. That’s all. Over, done, moving a little stiffly, but that’s to be expected. Oh, there’s a tattoo. John,” he swallowed. “You’ve patched up worse.” Burns. A dressing on his back he couldn’t reach or change himself, diabolical. “Not an addict.” He stressed the t’s and d’s. Not quite the truth. Not quite prescription. Lavender, from somewhere. Fabric softener?

“My God,” said Lestrade. “Stop it. Sit down.”

“No cake, is there?” Sitting was good. Oh. John? _*jealous?*_

Lestrade made a neat bed, neatly. Finally. Humming, possibly, something was humming. He looked fine from behind, bending over it, stretching, cloth in his fists. So good. “So good,” said Sherlock.

“Christ almighty,” said Lestrade. “Lie down.”

“With you. I. Want. You.” He was being held by the shoulders, moved, pushed down to land on his stomach and face and legs, he could pull his legs up by himself, he didn’t want to lie on his back, he was perfectly. Capable.

“Yeah, right. Be right back. No, let that go. Sherlock,” he was laughing, halfway. good. he was laughing. He was, he took off, he took off his shirt, clever, the whole while Sherlock had it in his fist, and left it in Sherlock’s fist and went off (not far, right there, next to the bed, he could feel him) and left it in his fist. Sherlock pulled his fist to his nose, with the shirt, the shirt tails, smelling of _*Greg*_ his detective, and sighed at last against clean sheets.

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock spills; a bit.

***

He’d wake up, they’d talk without touching, and Lestrade would drive him to Baker Street and it would all go back the way it was.

“You’ll take me home,” he said, without opening his eyes. Something wrong with his pillow.

“Not just yet,” said Lestrade. “We can wait for morning, yeah? Breakfast. Light.” Pillow moving with Lestrade’s words, unusually warm and bounce-y.

“I’m back.” Locating his left hand under bedclothes, prodding pillow, solving the unknown. Lestrade’s stomach. He smiled. Good, that was good.

“I got that. Are you awake?” Sherlock felt the hand on his neck move. His neck was not sore. He did not have abrasions or bruises on his neck, that he could feel. Lestrade must have looked him over closely to find a place to put his hand where it would not hurt him. Or a place that was neutral of intent. Sherlock liked thinking this way, planting word after deliberate word down like footsteps on beach sand, all pointing one way in a line. The tab he took was weak, or his tolerance had risen. He’d been asked a question.

“I don’t converse in my sleep.”

“Oh, but you do, mate.” No. There it was, renewed, the euphoric float that made this all tolerable. Plus Lestrade. “Want some water? You’ve been drooling,” said Lestrade, making no sense.

Lestrade’s stomach, the center of his body, of which Sherlock was decidedly fond. A favorite thing to touch. He was so smart to locate this, even asleep. “Continue,” said Sherlock. He liked the way it felt, Lestrade talking. _*...*_ “I walked on beaches,” he added.

“Feel like answering some questions?” The neutral fingers on his neck pressed down. Polite. Very well.

“When I got to the roof, I calculated thirteen possibibiblies. Pragmatics.” He inhaled. Yes, drool. “Ways to live.”

“Will this make sense? Because I’ve had my fill of idiotic theories.” Hand moved from neck to head, pushing. “Get off. You’re heavy”

“I make sense. All the sense. I wouldn’t have done it, else. Laid plans, got supplies.” He clutched Lestrade’s stomach. “Remember Baskerville. The gas.” He was being pushed away, and he was not giving this place up without a fight. He struggled to free his other hand, underneath his own stomach, top of his, oh, his rather nice erection pointing up. He gave himself a salutary squeeze and grabbed Lestrade’s hip, arm across his stomach. “Not moving,” he growled.

He was lying on his stomach, aslant on the bed. Dark in the bedroom. Not morning, yet. Sherlock’s eyes kept closing; he imagined, he rebuilt his Lestrade from memory, how he would look under and above and around him, here. He’d had practice, these past years; but some details had changed. The regrettable new hair kept slipping out of focus, back to the strands Sherlock liked to feel under the flat of his fingers, when Lestrade could be coaxed to go down to his knees and lick (oh, licking, lovely). His agreeable hands, his muscled forearms, his graying hair, his obvious mouth, his kind and occasionally observant eyes. Brown eyes. Soft mouth. Extremely agreeable looking and feeling cock, that Sherlock had just tonight, coming home, had in his mouth. “Forget that. Fuck. Want to?” He offered the excellent idea.

“You’re a bastard.”

“We can do it while you deplore me. Not the first time.” He groped downward, below the stomach now vibrating with – some emotion or other. Lestrade was very susceptible to manual manipulation. Sex on morphine was long and...long.

“All else aside, have you seen your back? Or your leg, or your shoulder, or—I don’t even know if you’re, you know—are you all right inside?”

“Inside _what?_ ” ow “If you’re happier with being penetra...”

“Do not, do _not_ finish that sentence.” Lestrade was surprisingly prim about some sexual discussions. Sherlock appreciated clarity and flustering Lestrade. Still, his cock was proving difficult to locate under layers of rumpled cloth. Buggering Lestrade was a campaign well worth the effort but one that required forethought and finesse. Welcome home. Guilt, would guilt work?

“You’ve lured me here under false pretense. I had reason to expect carnal relations of a celebratory nature, up to and including access to and enjoyment of your every private part. You ridiculous prude.” There, that was guilt-inducing, yes? “Questions, comments? Problem?”

“You’ve opened wounds. You got blood all over your shirt, and my shirt, and I’d rather you didn’t bleed in my bed. You’ve got bruises from shackles or I don’t know my job. You’ve been beaten on your back and sides, recently, you’ve got marks I don’t even understand on your arse and your thighs, and you’re back on the drugs and you’re not acting right. You are a lovely fuck, ta for the suck on the tiles, by the way, but that’s not uppermost in my mind this very minute. Oh, not to _mention_ the whole sudden ‘hello old friend, I’m back from the dead’ after two sodding years and _let’s pretend that’s OK!_ ” Yelling. Shoving him away, off his stomach. As Sherlock sitting up finally located his cock. Soft, alas.

“Fuck me,” he said. Fuck guilt, which didn’t work. “Fuck me and I’ll finish. Fuck me and I’ll answer anything you want. I’ll apologize if that means anything.” He was in the right, on this. He’d done nothing wrong to Lestrade since he’d returned. He wanted him, and all evidence had indicated he was wanted in return. Except for the matter of the currently flaccid cock, but...

“Christ.” Lestrade rubbed his nearly shaven head. Sherlock gave a subtly encouraging squeeze.

“I hate your hair.” He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. _*nearly, nearly*_

“Where have you been?” asked Lestrade. His mouth curved down. “What happened to you?” Close enough. Sherlock tilted his head. Kissed Lestrade on his downward curving, soft, appealing mouth. Pressed harder. No response. He licked his lips, wetting both their mouths, and sat back.

Under the haze was the pain. His back, his face, his buttocks, his shoulders, his thighs. “If you’re not going to fuck me this minute...”

“Stop it. When did you become crude?”

“I’ll take that glass of water.” He gave a final, hopeful squeeze, but Lestrade pushed backward, off the bed, out of his hands. Off, out of the room. Sherlock got up, turned on the lamp, and found his jacket on the back of the bedroom chair. Tablets gone.

By the time Lestrade returned, rather a long time, he was back in bed and drowsing. From the bedside table he’d extracted a strip of condoms and laid them suggestively across the base of the lamp. He was nude, having stripped off the pajama bottoms, and he wondered when Lestrade had seen his bum. He’d tried to see his back, twisting in front of the mirror behind the door (he was an appalling sight, seen in full, in this light) but only had the impression of fresh gauze and tape. The good Lestrade; John not necessary. “You changed the dressing,” he greeted him. He wished Lestrade had kissed him back. He sipped water from the thick, cheap glass and imagined the morphine melting through him. Lestrade had stopped in the bathroom for a piss and smelled now of more soap than needed for a quick handwash. Even for Lestrade, who was both a clean and a scruffy man. _*beard*_ Toothpaste. Oh, cigarettes, under. And outdoor air; he’d gone out to his little garden for a smoke. _hiding_

“Push over,” said Lestrade.

“I wish you’d shave.” He liked Lestrade clean shaven in bed, and Lestrade knew it, and as Lestrade had decided, before coming to bed twice not to shave, he should have seen. Sherlock slumped down and rolled onto his front. Lestrade could put his hand chastely where it was before, on his neck, and he would sleep these precious hours away, untouched, unwelcome.

“Who did this to you?” Lestrade asked.

“A boring, brutal man with more tattoos than brains. The dregs of Moriarty’s criminal pool in the Balkans. Nothing personal.”

“Chained you up and beat you, for the fun of it?”

“For a bit. Unimaginative and deeply stupid; no lasting harm done. Talked my way out, easily.”

“Why,” Lestrade’s hand traced the knife scar on his side. The shiny burn mark smeared above his hip. “Why. Where?” He exhaled a tobacco scented breath. “Why did you come back?”

“I told you. There’s a case. Credible terrorist threat, says our friend in high places. And Moriarty’s web is scattered, and there’s no one interesting left to find.” There hadn’t been for some time.

“Your brother? Mycroft knew where you were, this whole time? While we grieved?”

“Where I was,” said Sherlock. The most interesting, least damaging question to answer. “Ah, well, in no particular order: Tibet; waste of time and cold. Afghanistan, must tell John. If he ever. Argentina. Miami. Harlan County, Kentucky. You’d have liked that, from a copper’s perspective.” He’d thought often of Lestrade.

“Oh, yes? Interesting, was it?”

“Very shooty. A whole new order of carnival-caliber morons. Have you ever heard of the 21-foot rule? I’ll wager Mrs Hudson has. A stroll across the continent. India. Hong Kong. Central Europe. Moscow, Vitebsk. Not Africa; strange.” Moriarty’s network, laughable when he’d grasped its entirety. He’d lied and lied. “Grieved. Not really? You must have doubted. You must have figured it out. You honestly believed for one instant that I would kill myself?”

“I swore you were dead. I swore to Anderson and to John. Why did you do that to him?”

 _Anderson?_ “Yes, poor John. I’ve heard.”

“He was bad, Sherlock. Bad off. Sad, sorry, fucking mess.”

“And that’s my fault.”

“Yes. Lie to us, all right. But how could you lie to him?”

“Why is everyone fixed on John? Why did I leave Mrs Hudson, why did I leave you?”

“Because you don’t give a fuck about me. You care about John.”

 _*wrong*_ “I give multiple, inventive, vigorous fucks for you, Gustav Gerald Gabriel Gavin Grady Lestrade. You’re a blind fool if you think otherwise.” 

John’s John. Lestrade is Lestrade. He doesn’t say ‘fuck’ to John.

A space, a breath; believing, or not? “That’s sweet. Still angling for a drilling?” The broad, investigative hand had slid across his hip, over his left buttock. Those faint remaining marks were recreational, in a way. A belt buckle that had stung, payment. A bite from an immature alligator, amusing story. Now fingers were stroking across his arse, sliding under and around and between and up. 

“Ah,” Sherlock sighed. Oh, yes. 

“This hurt?” asked Lestrade, leaning over his neck. One thick, lovely finger, twisting into him.

“It’s fine. Good.” Burned right, burned bright, as Lestrade crooked his finger, just below the good spot, a little farther, please. He was still lingeringly high enough: he wanted hands on his breast and hips and thighs, wanted to be kissed and held and sucked and weighted down and pushed into _*consumed*_ for as long as, until, until at end Lestrade pushed him away. Until, until, he withdrew himself.

But one finger, one bright stretching ring, was what he was given. He clutched the sheet, anchored to the bed. “More,” he gasped. Another finger pulled at the muscle’s edge, but didn’t push. Sherlock spread his thighs wider and bore down. 

“Multiple, inventive, vigorous?” Sound of, sound of a plastic lid being popped, smell of generic vaseline; oh Lestrade, you traditionalist.

“Thirteen ways, I said.” Thirteen positions to save his back and allow a thorough, varied ride without cramp or strain.

Lestrade laughed. Yes, a push, yes, both fingers in now, pressing deep, hitting _*ssssss*_ Lestrade put weight into it, leaned in, deeper, and Sherlock arched his back. Oh, a better angle and oh, moving in him now, a slow drag out and a plunge in, and _*sssssss*_. 

How lovely to be fucking fucked on morphine. The long, rocking voyage without end. The favored partner, this one, along, in, around, for the ride, the trek, the steady canter at the ocean’s edge. Two years without, now back. 

“One,” Sherlock said, his voice rasping.


End file.
